


let's talk about it, wouldn't it be nice

by tomorrows



Series: and your light's always shining on [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Champions League, M/M, footie au, harry is a keeper for liverpool, if i tagged every footie star mentioned in here yall would kill me, look no one really matters but louisandharry okay, louis is a defender for real madrid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 23:22:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomorrows/pseuds/tomorrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every day Louis thinks he’s reached the full capacity that someone can physically love another person and somehow Harry manages to prove him wrong every single day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let's talk about it, wouldn't it be nice

**Author's Note:**

> update: hi you can follow me [on tumblr](http://tornorrows.tumblr.com) now 
> 
> i don't know leave me alone this took a while  
> also it's a sequel to "and your light's always shining on" which you should really read to understand this but if you don't it's not the end of the world love  
> and i don't know why i bothered  
> title is from the beach boy's wouldn't it be nice (BECAUSE I WANT TO HURT YOU ALL)

It all starts a few weeks before Harry's birthday, during the January transfer window. It's only been a few days since their (second) New Year's together back in England and Louis has still yet to come out. Their relationship, however, is instead a friendship of public knowledge, especially after the Champions League final from last year. (A ballsy move at the time, but Louis doesn’t really regret it at all, no matter the outcome.)

It took a while for the suspicions to die down, only done so with the help of bigger controversies by players like Ballotelli and Ronaldo, but Louis’ managed to keep his personal life away from the spotlight. It helps, of course, that everyone is back in London and Liverpool and Doncaster while he’s in Madrid entirely on his own.

It's weird, sometimes, because Louis knows what they look like when they’re together – a couple so sickeningly in love that they have to be forcibly removed from one other to be aware of others' existence – and yet they've managed to keep Louis' sexuality a secret from everyone but their closest friends and their families. And, of course, after Louis' spontaneous visit to last season's United x Liverpool derby, the entire Liverpool squad. (Credit where it's due, Louis has no clue how Harry's managed to keep his entire team silent, but apparently Scouse isn't synonymous with scum these days.)

But they’re good at controlling themselves in public for the most part, the 900 mile distance between them being the most prominent component to their secrecy.

There's still a lot of text messages and video chats and late-night phone calls when their schedules match up, but the present brings a lot more visits to the KOP and drawers filled with clothes a few sizes too big. (Louis considers them pajamas, mostly to make up for the absence of Harry's scent and gangly limbs in the dark of the night.)

It's not ideal and Louis knows that Harry wants nothing more than to be able to hold his hand in public, lay his claim and all that, but it's the best Louis' got to offer right now, and Harry understands. At least, he mentions it as rarely as possible and when Louis speaks of the topic with finality, Harry settles for an upset little pout before faking nonchalance and changing the topic.

Louis knows how deeply he cuts Harry every time he says he’s not ready to come out, but Harry knows that Louis’ guilt spurts from his self-consciousness, so he's given him the time he needs, because he _wants_ Louis to _want_ to come out and Louis hopes to God that Harry knows he’s worth coming out _with_ and _for_ ; everything in due time, when Louis’ a better person, a stronger person.

Despite having the support of everyone from Sir Alex Ferguson to Ronaldo (both Louis’ teammate and the legendary Brazilian), there's still the chants in the stadiums and the degrading word-play in the press and Louis knows it's not easy for Harry in _Liverpool_ , can't imagine it at Real Madrid for himself. It is the football world, after all, and despite everything Harry's coming out did for its progress toward a more welcoming, gay-friendly image, support and equality aren’t necessarily always unconditional. Any time Harry mucks up, the press has a field day with their awful puns, forcing Louis to console an absolutely devastated Harry over the phone on more than one occasion.

Thankfully, however, Harry doesn’t muck up nearly as often as the Daily Fail would like because Harry’s fucking _fantastic_ , getting better with each game. It also helps that the whole of Merseyside (bar the Everton twats) defend their boy like he’s the second coming of Christ. (Which he may be, Louis’ thought about it once or twice.)

A lot of players, to both Louis’ and Harry’s surprise, have also spoken both publicly and privately about how much they support Harry; how they’re proud of him and hope that more athletes do begin to come out, too, to a more welcoming world of sports. One them is American footie star Robbie Rodgers, who’d come out a few months prior to Harry. He'd met up with them in a bar in London during winter hols, in the middle of working on his fashion line and returning to the MLS.

They hadn’t told Robbie that they’re together, but there had been a knowing glint in the boy’s eyes; a hopeful one that Louis almost felt uncomfortable under had it not been superseded by Robbie’s pride. At the end of that night, the three of them had exchanged numbers and Louis’ heart had clenched when Robbie whispered a quiet, “always here when you need it, mate” and a final “good luck Louis, I promise it’ll be worth it."

•••

It's late at night in January right after a midweek derby against Atletico that Louis finds himself staring at the calendar on his phone, realizing only then that Harry's birthday is in two and a half weeks' time. He's not surprised that it's slipped his mind, because Louis’ brain is always a little hazy and languid after the holidays, but he's also not surprised that Humble Little Harry hasn't said anything about it either.

It's nearing two in the morning, but Louis grabs his phone from the nightstand and sends a text anyways.

_so..apparently a special someones birthday is comin up ! happen to know anythin about that ?? xx_

Unsurprisingly, Harry replies almost immediately. Despite Louis' chastising, the boy has recently gotten in the habit of staying up back home to catch Real's matches.

_Hmm... can't think of any! Xx_

_so im guessin you wouldnt happen to know what a certain cheeky bugger would want ? xxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

And yes, maybe that's about ten x's too many, but they've been apart for two weeks now and Louis' lonely. It's hard not to be, after spending their entire Christmas hols together; meeting each others' families and waking up next to one another, pressing kisses on every bare inch of skin every minute of the day. It’s a routine that the two had gotten used to – memorized each others’ bodies like the back of their hands – and now that they’ve had to readjust to normal life, it’s near impossible to not be a little clingy; a lot desperate.

_Reckon that cheeky bugger would like nothing more than a cute footie star in his bed ;) Xx_

_seems like a reasonable request :) xx_

_Would be if the footie star didn't have a HUGE match that same day!! Xxx_

Confused, Louis goes check his calendar again and right there on the 1st of February underneath the celebratory emojis for Harry's birthday is written in all caps:

**!!!!!!!!!!!REAL X BARCA!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
20:45 @ CAMP NOU **

And just like that, every ounce of excitement Louis once harbored for Harry's birthday dissipates, his entire body and soul now filled to the brim with anxiety and nerves. _Fuck_ , how could he have forgotten so easily? Coach has been drilling them twice as hard and the press has been viscous as ever, all in preparation for this Champions League Clasicó (honestly, how the fuck they managed to meet Barca in just the Round of 16 is beyond Louis, because nothing says shit fucking luck like meeting your club’s century-long rival this early in the Champions League), which just so happens to be the day of Harry's birthday. By the time he manages to get himself to breathe evenly, Harry's sent half a dozen messages.

_Don’t tell me you forgot about the match?? Xx_

_You forgot didn’t you!!!! x_

_:(_

_Hey,dont worry about my birthday xxx we'll figure something after:)) xxxx_

_Celebratory party when you trash them more like!! Xx_

_Gotta be up in a few hrs for training call you tomorrow night? Love you xxx_

_All I want for my birthday is for you to be happy x dont fret sunshine xxxxxxxxxxx good luck!! H xx_

And with a boy like that, it's no wonder Louis finds it near impossible to keep track of his days. (Maybe there is a constant loop of _Harry Harry Harry_ related thoughts running through his head at all times – what of it?) Louis sends 10 texts worth of rainbow heart emojis and a promise to call in the morning before he turns his lights off and goes to bed. It takes a while for sleepiness to slip in, his heart thumping against a steady rhythm of worries about losing Champions League matches and cute boys back in Liverpool and public images that've taken entire careers to build.

•••

It's later in that week during Sunday’s Match of the Day against Everton that Louis finds himself up earlier than normal to watch his boyfriend's game before he has to head out to his own mid-day training. It's a home game for Liverpool, thankfully, because even though it's almost been a year since Harry's come out, the response at away matches hasn't gotten much friendlier.

Louis hates away games for Harry because he sees the handmade banners and hears the rowdy slurs over the commentators on his television (who chose to act as if it doesn’t exist; as if thousands of horrible people chanting homophobic slurs at an athlete is _normal_ , something they should be accustomed to by now) (Louis’ not accustomed to it, that’s for sure) and he knows how much worse it must be for Harry to have to face all of it without being able to flip the channel and run away, like Louis often does. It doesn't get easier, ever, really, and Harry's impeccable skill only fuels the opposing crowds’ anger more; never worse than when they're at Old Trafford or Goodison Park, like today.

It should be an easy win, technically, with Everton's keeper Tim Howard out with a fractured wrist. Liverpool is second in the table right behind Manchester City while Everton is getting closer and closer to regulation with each passing week.

It happens right before halftime, Liverpool leading 3-nil with an absurd perfect hattrick from Gerrard, that an Everton fan invades the pitch. The guy, a scrawny lad with a scruffy face and gangly limbs, runs straight toward the Liverpool defense, away from the stadium’s husky guards and pulling off a jersey to revel a royal blue wife-beater with something written in sloppy white ink.

He runs around and past baffled Everton and Liverpool players, stopping only when he reaches Harry, whose eyes, Louis can see 900 miles away on his flatscreen, are wide and panicked. The cameras have zoomed in by then and Louis straightens up in his couch, heart racing, as the guy huffs an angry, vicious _fuck you_ before throwing a fist to Harry’s jaw. Nine hundred miles away, the sound echoes in Louis’ ears so loud that he almost misses the commentators horrified gasps; almost misses the writing on the prick’s shirt: **KEEP FAGS OUT OF FOOTBALL**.

He can physically feel the blood drain from his face, his throat closing and his breakfast finding its way back up when Harry doubles over on the pitch and the invader uses this as an opportunity to aim a forceful kick to Harry’s chest, causing him to collapse on the ground. It’s only when guards and police officers and both Everton and Liverpool players have tackled the guy to the ground that he stops kicking at Harry’s limp, beaten body.

Louis doesn’t breathe until he’s called out from practice and bought a ticket on the first plane out to Liverpool.

•••

By the time Louis’ in Liverpool it’s just past midnight and Harry’s entire family and squad has already stopped by, leaving their mark with dozens of flowers and balloons, a homemade quilt wrapped around Harry that Louis recognizes from Anne’s house, complementary hospital newspapers tossed in the bin, the television remote nowhere to be seen, Harry’s raggedy childhood teddy bear nuzzling in the crook of his neck. Louis feels a bit guilty now for not having brought anything for Harry, much less himself. In his harried rush, all he’d managed to grab was his passport and wallet, not even bothering for to grab his phone charger on his way out.

Harry’s still a hazy little mess when Louis walks into the barely-lit hospital room, the lights dimmed and Harry drugged up stupidly. There are bags under Harry’s droopy eyes and Louis can see through his thin hospital gown the rough pattern of the tape and bandages wrapped around his ribs, stitches on his left cheekbone, bottom lip cracked with dried blood. It makes Louis weak in the knees, unable to get the images from the match out of his head before he collapses on the chair by Harry’s bed.

“Lou?” Harry croaks out, his eyes trying to focus on Louis’ blurry figure.

“Harry, _Jesus,_ ” Louis chokes up, immediately moving to wrap both his hands around Harry’s thin, shaking hand. “How’re you feeling, love? You okay?”

Harry hums quietly, closing his eyes so slowly that Louis can count his eyelashes, “S’okay. Hurts to breathe a bit, but m’better. Can’t feel that much, actually.”

He talks slowly, slower than he normally does, which Louis never thought was possible, and Louis can’t help but feel guilty for making Harry talk, for putting him through even that tiny amount of pain. Louis knows by now that even if Harry _was_ in excruciating pain he’d put up a front and shrug his shoulders, smile like it was nothing.

Louis leans over and brushes Harry’s curls away from his eyes, lightly running his fingers through the boy’s fringe. “You scared the shit outta me today, Haz,” Louis confesses with a deep exhale, “Even me mum and sisters have blown up my phone asking about you.”

Harry manages a smile as he nuzzles his head against Louis’ palm, silently begging to please, continue. “They drove up here with Stan a few hours ago. Everyone’s back at my house with Gem and Robin and mum.”

“Sorry about that.”

Harry opens up his eyes then and wraps his nimble fingers around Louis’ wrist, his eyes a foggy jade color in the hospital light.

“Don’t be. Zayn and the boys are driving down tomorrow, too. It’ll be nice to have everyone around again. I missed them already.”

 _“Haz,”_ Louis chastises.

He, too, is happy to have everyone together again, but not for this reason. Any reason but this, he thinks, would be okay. For everyone to drive out because Harry’s been the victim of some arse homophobe makes Louis sick to his stomach and absolutely miserable, because he would never choose to endanger Harry just for the sake of some get-together.

“M’okay Lou, I promise.”

“You’re not okay.”

Harry manages to roll his eyes slowly at that, a gesture that has Louis smiling and leaning over to press a kiss to his forehead, not daring move his fingers from the boy’s curly locks.

“Haven’t you got training tomorrow?”

“I’ll call out again, then. I’m not leaving here 'til you’re better.”

“S’just a few bruised ribs, Lou, I’ll be outta here in no time.”

“Then I’ll wait it out,” Louis shrugs nonchalantly.

“Louis.”

“Go to sleep, Harry. You need the rest.”

“Don’t they have specific visitor hours here?”

Louis can’t help but grin, pulling his chair up closer to Harry’s bedside and kissing his cold cheek, “Special privileges just for you, Mr. Styles. Now go to sleep. I’m gonna be here when you wake up. Can’t get rid of me that easily, Haz.”

By now the drugs in Harry’s system have loosened him up exceptionally, making his eyes sleepy and grin goofy as he licks his lips and puckers them up, slurring his words when he asks for a goodnight kiss. Louis abides happily, peppering Harry's rough lips with kisses until Harry is giggling and making Louis pinky promise to keep playing with his hair.

•••

Louis is forced to go back to Madrid on Tuesday morning by a sobered up and recently discharged Harry, just in time for the match against Malaga. He knows he’s going to be benched, especially after the pictures of him rushing into a hospital in Liverpool at midnight have leaked, but he finds it hard to care when Real Madrid are 13 points ahead of Malaga. The press hasn’t stopped talking about Harry since the incident and when Louis finally turns his phone back on that Tuesday, his voicemail is filled with nosy journalist after nosy journalist.

Harry’s mum, stepdad, and Gemma decide to stay with Harry for the week and take care of him. Louis’ own family and friends don’t leave until Harry forces them out, too, uncomfortable with all the cooing and coddling, making everyone miss work and school over him for nothing.

He’s not in terrible condition, thankfully, just a few bruised ribs and stitches, said to be better in time for his birthday. The mention of Harry’s birthday sends Louis into a frenzy all over again, has him biting his nails and tapping his foot all throughout his plane ride back home (where he wears a pair of Harry’s joggers and a jumper two sizes too big). (It feels good, though, homey in the sense that when he walks into his dark, empty flat in Madrid he can still smell his boy around him.)

He still has absolutely no fucking idea what to do for Harry’s birthday, less than two weeks away now, especially with it being the day of the Clasicó. It really doesn’t help that he’s missed two days’ worth of training and a match to go with it now. He’s only been on Spanish soil for two hours and already he’s overwhelmed and stressed and even in the midst of all his worries, all he can think about is Harry back in Liverpool, bandaged up and hidden from all the paps and news articles.

It almost feels like it's his fault, Harry’s incident, though he knows it has nothing to do with him, not really. He didn’t force Harry to come out, practically had no part in it at the time (that he knows of). Harry’s never really explained why he came out when he did, just shrugged it off as “the right thing to do at the right moment." Regardless, Louis thinks that maybe if he wasn’t in the picture, maybe Harry never would’ve come out, and maybe Sunday never would’ve happened. It’s stupid, he knows, but the guilt sticks with him for the rest of the day.

•••

He shouldn’t be surprised, but he is. It’s after that night’s match against Malaga (he’s on the bench, but only because he had already been called up on Sunday before his little stint and it's too late to bother with roster changes) when he goes up to do a quick interview with a journo on the sidelines. He’s expecting a question or two about the game; how it felt to be on the bench for the first time all season, his thoughts on the 3-2 win (a surprise for both teams considering Real have only let in 11 goals thus far in the season).

Instead the journalist asks him about Harry Styles. It’s a woman from Sky Sports that rambles fast in a properly posh London accent. _How is Harry? Why did Louis fly over immediately? Would that happen to do anything with the pitch invader? How does he feel about Harry being the only openly gay footballer in Europe? Is there anything he would like to confess?_

Louis blanks out completely, his body frozen and the blood draining from his face, right in front of the cameraman. He manages to stutter out a quick _sorry_ before hurrying back into the tunnels.

He doesn’t bother to shower or undress, just waits for Mourinho to come in and give them a speech about _defense, defense, defense_ and completing their passes in the midfield, before rushing out of the stadium. There are even more paps and journos outside, huddled around Louis’ tiny Porsche when he attempts to drive out, yelling out questions in both English and Spanish, flashing their cameras at the windows of his car. Louis already knows by then that his pale, overwhelmed face is going to be the topic of one too many conversations come tomorrow as he drives back home, 25 kilometers past the speed limit.

He turns his phone back on for the first time that day after he’s showered, done some breathing exercises, and settled down in bed with a cup of tea. Ironically enough, it’s only about a minute after he’s turned his phone on that he gets a call from Harry. His stomach does a strange swoop but he answers regardless, eager to hear Harry’s voice for the first time that day.

Harry’s voice is surprisingly soft and tender when he greets Louis. Normally it’s happy and giggly after a good win, or rough and miserable after a bad night’s sleep. It feels almost like he’s being careful with Louis, walking around the edges carefully, afraid of saying the wrong thing.

“So,” Louis sighs, finally mustering up the courage to discuss the elephant in the room, “Sky is pretty fast with their updates, huh?”

Harry’s voice is hesitant and sheepish when he replies. “Sorry... It was a live stream.”

“Haz,” Louis groans, rubbing the heel of his palm against his closed eyes, a little too roughly to be considered comfortable. “I can’t… I can’t do this right now.”

“Coming out, you mean.” Harry sounds serious now, a little provoking, even.

“Harry.”

“No, Louis. Don't beat around the bush with this anymore. Not after Sunday.” Harry’s voice is stern and straightforward, angry in a way that Louis isn’t used to.

And there it is, the explanation behind the knot that’s taken place in Louis’ stomach all week. A lump forms in his throat and no, he really doesn’t want to have this conversation, not today, not Sunday, not tomorrow.

“Is it really that bad to be gay, Louis?”

“You should know better than anyone that it really, _really_ is, Harry.”

“Not everyone is like that, though!” Harry exclaims.

“But a lot of them are!” Louis shouts, “Most of them are! They’re fucking _pricks_ , Harry, and they beat the shit out of you just because you like it up the arse, _that’s it_. Not because you’re a bad person or because you've killed someone – just because you like other guys, Harry, that’s all. They fucking loathe you for no proper fucking reason and I can’t handle that, okay. Didn’t you read his shirt? They don’t even want us on the pitch, Haz. _Fuck_ , we’re not welcome with them. How don’t you see that?”

The other end of the line goes quiet for a few minutes. Louis can feel himself shaking on his bed, face red and heart racing; absolutely, miserably, guiltily fuming. When Harry speaks again, his voice is even quieter, barely an audible mumble.

“I can see that perfectly fine, Louis, thank you very much. It’s somewhat hard to miss when you’ve got to read sign after sign every weekend. And, you know, reading it on some prick’s shirt before getting the shit beat out of you kind of drills that message home.”

“Ha–”

“Don’t even bother, Lou. When I came out I did it because I was happy and proud to be the person my mum raised me to be. And you know what? I meet people every fucking day who tell me that me coming out made things _so much better_ for them. Jesus, Louis, I’d take a thousand more fists in the face if it meant even just one kid back home had someone to look up to. Someone to make them feel like they're not completely alone in this world and that it's fucking okay to love whoever you want. That's worth much more than any footie match or punch in the face, Louis, and I wish _you_ could just _see_ that."

And that feels like a direct punch in the gut, kind of like what Harry had to deal with. Except Louis cares about Harry. He loves Harry and his opinions matter to him, not some pitch invader’s. Unlike some random homophobic prick, Harry is important to Louis and maybe that's something he needs to start reminding himself.

"We're so much better when we're together, Lou." It sounds like Harry is begging and Louis can hear the pain in his voice, what sounds like a sniffle when he whispers again, "I can do this alone, you know I can, but I don't want to have to. I want you by my side, Lou, _please_."

His eyes prickle with tears and fuck, this is turning out to be the worst week of Louis' life.

"I love you so much, Harry, you've got to know that–"

"But I'm not worth it, I get it. All those kids stuck in the closet, they're not worth it."

"You are, Haz, you know you are. And they are. You're making me out to be the bad guy."

"I'm stating the facts."

"You're not, actually. You're just making assumptions and you're trying to guilt-trip me into coming out to millions of homophobic pricks."

"You know what?" Harry sighs on the other end of the line, exhausted and disappointed and miserable, "This is going nowhere. It's late and I'm sick of having this argument with you. Call me when you figure out what you want to do with 'us'. Night, Lou.”

Before Louis can reply, maybe push out an apology and drag the discussion out – even though every fiber of his being is begging for the opposite – Harry’s hung up on him and he’s left with nothing but the sound of the dial tone and his guilt to keep him company.

•••

Harry doesn’t call Louis the next morning. He doesn’t text him, doesn’t Snapchat him, doesn’t even read Louis messages on Whatsapp when Louis send 23 of them by noon. And that kind of makes everything more real; Sunday's match, Louis’ interview, their argument last night. Like everything else that’s happened in the last week, Louis feels like yeah, he probably should’ve expected that, but he hadn’t. Some naïve part of him had actually expected Harry to call him that morning to apologize and make up. To give him some time and let _Louis_ decide when he was ready to come out, rather than force it out of him.

And that pisses Louis off, if he’s honest. Who does Harry think he is, giving Louis an ultimatum like that? Right before a fucking Clasicó at the _Camp Nou_ nonetheless, where they tear him to shreds on a normal day, would probably have a God damn field day if they found out he was gay.

So Louis stops after the fourth voicemail and ninth email, deciding to give Harry some time to think, too. Maybe come to the realization that boyfriends are meant to be accepting, not unjustly demanding. Besides, maybe this space will be good for them both. It’ll give Louis time to focus before his Champions League match and it’ll give Harry an opportunity to recover, stress free and all.

And Louis does just that: focus on the Champions League match. He goes to training an hour earlier than everyone else and stays an hour longer, pushing himself physically, partly for his own good and partly to keep himself distracted. Distracted from the fact that Harry hasn’t called him either. Hasn’t contacted him at all since their argument.

He’s miserable, no doubt, feels like a part of him is missing. It feels wrong to not hear Harry’s voice every day or to have silly videos in his inbox every morning or cheesy puns to read in the middle of practice. It feels wrong because Louis knows that this is more than just another argument, bigger than just “some time to think.” This is so much bigger than the both of them and God, Louis is terrified because he really doesn’t want this to be the end for them. He doesn’t want some homophobic twats to be the reason he fucks it up with the only boy he’s ever loved.

And that’s how Louis finds himself in the locker room of the Camp Nou on Harry’s birthday, minutes before the teams are ready to line up, without a good luck text or phone call from Harry. Nothing, still nothing, and that kind of destroys Louis because he’d expected a little more from his boy.

He tries to not let that get to him before a match this huge and instead decides to be the bigger person and send Harry a text before the team heads out for the tunnels.

_happy birthday darling_  
 _hope u had a great day_  
 _love u xxx_  
 _yours, Louis_

•••

Despite everything, Real are fucking piss poor at best the entire match. They’re down 3-1 at halftime, but by the time the 80th minute comes around, the scoreline reads 7-1 and the world feels like it’s fallen off its axis.

Jesus Christ, they’d beaten Barca 4-2 in the October Clasicó – where the fuck is this coming from?

They’re a mess everywhere; up front where Benzema is slower than normal and Higuain is offside every other cross, in the midfield where Ozil and Xabi aren’t reading each others’ passes correctly at all, and in the back where Louis and Pepe are fuming more than usual, making sloppy tackles, and Louis knows in his gut that something is about to go horribly wrong.

It’s only a few minutes later, after Messi has scored his fourth goal of the match – _fourth goal of the match_ – and the scoreline reaches 8-1 that Louis snaps. Maybe it has something to do with the roars of the crowd or maybe it has to do with the way a few of Barca’s midfielders push him to the ground on their way to celebrate. Mostly it has to do with the obscene gestures by some fans in the front row, something that looks a lot like they’re asking Louis to blow them, what he lip-reads as _maricón_ , Spanish for _faggot_.

And the thing is, Louis should know better. He was raised better than this and he’s been trained to perform at his best no matter the crowd, no matter the pressure, no matter the tension. Clasicós are known for being the most intense derbies in the sport, but Louis’ managed to go his entire career at Real without getting involved, something journos and coaches have always applauded him on.

But today feels a little different than normal and Louis doesn’t think when he walks up to Alexis, one of the Barca players, doesn’t think when he shoves him right back. He doesn’t think when the two teams begin to scuffle and his fist flies to Alexis’ jaw. And that’s it. It all happens in the blink of an eye and before Louis can realize what’s happened, he’s escorted off the pitch with a red card, kicking him out of the second leg of the match back in Madrid.

It doesn’t sink in until he’s in the locker room, getting barked at by their trainers. He listens to the fast-paced Spanish, but he doesn’t hear any of it, not until the game’s over and the rest of the team has dragged themselves into the room, too.

Most of them are quiet, covering up their rage like professionals, unlike the rest of the players who curse in their native languages.

It gets quiet after a while, all of them seated; disappointed and heart-broken and outraged. Mourinho walks in then, looks around the room and casts a glance at his team, lets his eyes linger on Louis for a good measure longer than anyone else. Louis feels himself shrinking under the coach’s eyes, the last twenty minutes unable to stop repeating in his head, especially not when he drops his head and shuts his eyes tightly.

“I don’t think anything needs to be said about tonight’s match that you aren’t already thinking,” Mourinho speaks from the center of the room. “The bus leaves for the airport in an hour. Practice is at noon tomorrow at Valdebebas, as usual. I don’t want anyone speaking to journalists. They’ll be no press conferences and closed training all week. I hope you all take this an opportunity to think about what this means for your club in the long run.”

•••

Louis doesn’t go to sleep on the short plane ride back to Madrid. He doesn’t sleep when he gets home either. Everything feels surprisingly empty at the moment because he’d been expecting to be up all night, his thoughts eating away at him, but it’s quite the opposite. There’s nothing running through his head and he feels nothing emotionally.

All there is is an ache in his calves and the images of the homophobic fans still etched into the back of his eyelids every time he blinks.

He goes to training that day not having caught a minute’s worth of sleep all night, not surprised when everyone else looks just as terrible as himself.

It’s colder outside than normal, grey skies looming over them and a sluggish snowfall trickling lightly. All of it matches perfectly with everyone’s downtrodden mood. It’s a quiet practice, void of the usual jokes and silly ball tricks, the events of yesterday still a fresh wound for them all.

Louis stays later than everyone, getting an ear’s worth from the coach, the assistant coaches, the trainers, and then even by the club’s president himself. By the time he’s packing up to leave the training grounds, all of his teammates have left, bar one.

Xabi walks up to him while Louis is changing out of his training gear, taking a seat on the bench by Louis’ duffle bag.

“Yesterday…” Xabi begins hesitantly, trying to meet Louis’ eyes.

“Don’t worry about it, mate. Already got a mouthful from everyone and their mother.”

“No,” Xabi shakes his head, “I… I wanted to talk to you about what happened yesterday. What… Pushed you off the edge. You’re usually so calm, it just didn’t make any sense.”

Louis thinks he’s stopped breathing then, unable to formulate any proper response. He can feel his heartbeat in his ears, the loud thump reverberating throughout his entire body.

“I saw some fans right before… I wasn’t sure if it had anything to do with what happened.”

 _This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen_ is all Louis can think as he stops moving, his arms falling to his sides. This isn’t supposed to happen at all, actually, and the first thing that comes to his mind is Harry. Harry’s broken voice the last time they’d talked, Harry’s anguished pout when Louis had left Liverpool, Harry’s warm breath on his cheekbone when he’d told Louis he’d loved him on New Year’s Eve.

“I’m not implying anything, Louis, but you know –"

“I can’t really talk right now, actually,” Louis manages to rush out, throwing his things into his bag and shutting his locker.

“Louis –”

He turns to Xabi for the first time now, tossing the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder, “It was nothing, okay. Just some typical Clasicó tension like always, you know. Don’t worry about it.”

“I have to worry about it,” Xabi jumps up, “That _tension_ just cost us our starting leftback and the Champions League trophy.”

“It’s not… It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.” Louis can hear how he sounds: fucking terrified and out of place, like he might just piss himself right there. “I thought… I-I knew it’d happen eventually, I just… I didn’t think it’d…” He pauses, unable to even finish his sentence. The words choke up in the back of his throat like the lump that’s also taken place. _Shit_ , he’s still a cowardly little bastard.

“I won’t say anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Honestly?” Louis sighs, dropping to the bench next to Xabi, his shoulders sagging, dropping his head. “That wouldn’t even be the worst thing to happen these last few weeks. No one gives a shit about that, not really. They just want any chance they can get to talk some shit.”

“This wouldn’t happen to have anything with that Harry kid back in Liverpool, would it?”

Louis chuckles bitterly, “Almost everything, actually.”

“Yeah, I figured that much.”

When Louis turns to Xabi, the older man is smiling at him, an understanding shine in his eyes. Xabi has always felt a little different than everyone else; quieter and more sensible, preferring to lead by example rather than by words. He feels like an old soul, comfortable to be around like a childhood friend or a favorite uncle. Louis feels even more relaxed around him these last few months and he thinks maybe it has to do with the lad’s history at Liverpool. It reminds him of Harry; everything reminds him of Harry nowadays.

“How’s he doing, by the way? I saw that Merseyside derby the other week.”

Louis shrugs his shoulder, “Better, I’d assume. Haven’t actually heard from him since, not really. We’re kind of… We’re having a rough patch, if you could call it that.”

Xabi smiles, patting Louis on his thigh, “I knew you were a little off these last few days, but don’t worry yourself sick anymore.” He pauses for a minute, sighing deeply. “You two will be okay, you know. You’re good together. I’m sure he’s worth it, for all that counts. Send him my best wishes, yeah?”

Louis nods obligingly, unsure if he can even keep that promise. Xabi gets up to leave then, gripping Louis’ shoulder only for a moment and reminding him to please, get some rest and call his boy. When he’s finally left Louis feels like the air’s been knocked out of him. Everything feels so surreal in that moment, the events of the last month rushing through his head at warp speed.

It’s then that he begins to feel a proper ache in his body, a month's worth of intense practice and unfinished fuck ups finally surfacing. He's so fucking exhausted; emotionally, physically, mentally and it takes every ounce of energy he's got left in him to gather his belongings and make the drive home. When he turns his key in the door he barely makes it past the threshold before he collapses on the futon and falls asleep for the first time in almost two days.

•••

Louis wakes up nearly twelve hours later before the sun has even risen, mysteriously having made it up to his bedroom in the middle of the night. He blinks his eyes a few times, trying to adjust to the darkness of the room. When he sits up he notices that the shades are pulled shut and the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed are bed folded, placed on top of his drawers. And somehow he's ended up in just his pants, another thing he's absolutely positive he hadn't done yesterday.

" _Shit,_ " Louis mumbles to himself as he sits up and throws the duvet off himself, jumping out of bed.

He's not sure how he does it, but somehow he makes it down the flight of stairs and to his living room without forgetting to breathe. And when he does get there he can't seem to swallow past the elephant-sized lump in his throat.

He's a little disappointed, if he's being honest, to find that sprawled out on his couch is Niall, not the person he'd expected. (A silly part of him had actually thought that this was all Harry's work and shit, _fuck,_ he really needs to learn to stop expecting so much from everyone, Harry especially.)

Louis exhales morosely and drops himself on the end of the couch on top of Niall's feet. The action makes Niall stir in his sleep before tossing over on his back and rubbing his eyes open.

"Lou?" He croaks out. His voice echoes in the dark, empty house, sending a shiver through Louis' body.

"Hey, mate," he manages to reply back, forcing a thin smile on his lips. He pulls himself off the couch, but only to bring Niall's feet on his lap, lightly wrapping a hand around the boy's ankles.

"Didn't expect you to be up this early, if m'honest," Niall yawns loudly, "We found ya here completely passed out last night, mate."

"We?" Louis raises his voice, straightening up.

Niall sends him a remorseful glance as he sits up, removing his legs from Louis' lap. "Not... It's just Zayn and Liam. I let them have the guest room upstairs. Stan took the other one."

"Oh."

"Hey," Niall whispers, already woken up at this point, wrapping an arm around Louis, "Just give it some time, mate. He'll come around."

Louis turns to his friend and Christ, it's impossible to keep his eyes from tearing up. _"He didn't even ask about me?"_

"None of us have really talked to him since, y'know, your thing. We tried to ask him to come down with us yesterday, but he wasn't pickin' up any of our calls."

"Getting the silent treatment too, huh?"

"Is it that bad, whatever's goin' on between ya?"

Louis shrugs, leaning back against the couch, his head falling back. "He's trying to force me to come out, Ni."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"Except Xabi knows now. Xabi fucking Alonso knows I like it up at the arse, Niall, how ridiculous is that?"

Niall laughs at that, a quieter version of his usual cackle. "Explains why you were passed out last night."

Louis groans loudly, frustrated. Everything feels like shit right now, as if nothing is in his hands anymore. He can't remember the last time he had proper control over something in his life; feels like he's been running on autopilot since New Year's. He buries his face in the crook of Niall's neck and begs the boy to hold him for just a little while, give him a chance to escape.

"I miss him so much," Louis confesses into Niall's sweater.

Niall doesn't reply back for a while, just holds on to Louis and runs his small hand through the boy's feathery hair.

"Liverpool have got their Champions League match against Ajax today," Niall finally says out of nowhere.

It sounds like a plausible scenario, that Harry's been ignoring them because he's busy with football, and Louis remembers the doctors saying Harry would be better by his birthday. He probably won't be starting, that's for sure, but there's still the possibility that he'd been called up just to present a united, supportive club image.

"Yeah," Niall says with his phone in his hand, reading Louis' mind, "He's been called up. Game's in Amsterdam. Have you called him since your match?"

Louis sits up, "No. I sent him a text before the match, but I haven't talked to him since the shit storm on Sky."

"Have you checked your phone?"

He jumps out of Niall's arm, leaping towards the stairs and to his bedroom where his phone sits on the bedside table. His heart races in his chest at twice its normal speed as he waits for his phone to turn on.

"AND?" Niall practically yells when he finally catches up and throws himself on Louis' bed, sprawled out like a starfish next to him.

Louis' stomach flips when his phone's turned on and there on his screen he sees a missed call from Harry from two nights ago, right around the time the Clasicó had ended.

"Fuck, Niall, he called," Louis exhales, completely torn. "He called."

"Then call him back, ya fuckin' tit!"

He's already dialing Harry back by then, his fingers shaking and his breath caught in his throat, completely unaware of what he's going to say. Niall throws himself onto Louis' back and the two of them wait as the phone rings, their hearts racing a little faster with every millisecond that passes.

Except Harry doesn't pick up, is the thing. All Louis gets is his voicemail.

"He's probably still asleep, Lou, I bet it's –"

"Yeah," Louis clears his throat, "Yeah, probably. I'll just call him back later."

•••

Louis and Niall end up going back to sleep in Louis' bed until the late afternoon when Zayn, Liam, and Stan wake the two up. They decide to go out for brunch at the bakery across the street before Louis has to get to training; a chance for the lads to fuel up before they head to town.

No one speaks about Harry and there's no mention of the other day's scene in Barcelona, the main reason the boys have come down to begin with. Even Niall doesn't say a word about the missed call at the arsecrack of dawn. The five of them eat and sip their drinks, somehow managing to get from the bakery to Louis' flat without getting papped.

Training is the same as it had been yesterday: gloomy and dark, just like the weather. The wounds are still just as fresh, but at least today the events of the Clasicó have sunk in a bit more. No one points their fingers at Louis, like the paranoid part of his mind had expected. He knows it's not everyone's fault, however, because not everyone had gotten involved. But regardless, no one had reacted like Louis had, not even Pepe, and that makes him feel like maybe it is entirely his fault.

Xabi doesn't react differently to Louis now that he knows Louis is gay, either. Louis trusts Xabi, he absolutely does, but that doesn't make him any less paranoid. If anything, it puts him on edge even more than usual, terrified that Xabi might let something slip without meaning to. He doesn't expect a horrible response from his teammates because they're all good, friendly lads, but he can't expect for them to keep his sexuality a secret for him, the way Liverpool have. (Not because they're crazy about Louis; only because they care about Harry.)

By the time he makes it back from training (having stayed an extra hour to catch a swim and clear his head) with an early dinner in tow, the boys have made it back from their day out in town and have spread out in the living room with the Liverpool x Ajax game on tv.

Since Harry had taken over Reina's place as Liverpool's first keeper while the Spaniard had been injured (resulting in Reina's move to Valencia last summer), Liverpool's second keeper takes Harry's place in the box that night. Somehow Louis manages to drown out the commentators and all they must be saying about Harry, this being his first match back on the bench since the incident at Goodison Park– a task made much easier with the rapidly spoken Spanish.

Harry looks different now in some ways. Older, more serious, like the last two and a half weeks have made him age a year or two. His stitches have been taken out and the bruises on his face are barely visible at this point. He's in a heavy, red winter coat with a white beanie pulled over his thick curls. With the cameras zoomed in so closely on his stern, focused form sat stiffly on the bench, it's easy to notice the bags under his emerald eyes and the thin line of his lips, a grimace in place of his usual goofy grin.

Harry's image tugs at Louis' heart because he misses his boy so desperately, his voice and his scent and his touch. The soft, even breathes of his exhales against his skin. The way his whole body would rumble with laughter when he'd tackle Louis with kisses. Harry's kisses, God, how he misses Harry's kisses and Harry's lips and Harry's his tiny little pink tongue poking out of his mouth whilst he played Scrabble in Louis' childhood home against Louis' littlest sisters.

He misses every part of Harry, even the parts that pushed him away,

•••

Liverpool end up beating Ajax 4-1. Louis spends the entire match thinking about Harry.

•••

Louis has double training the next day and makes it back later that night just in time to see the boys off at the airport. They pat him on the back and wish him luck against the match against Santander tomorrow, which he's been called up for much to his surprise.

No one says anything about Harry or the fact that Louis hasn't mentioned him either, but Niall holds him a beat longer than everyone else, a bit tighter than everyone else.

"Don't give up on him just yet, mate," Niall whispers into his shoulder while they stand before their gate.

The drive from the airport to his flat has Louis in a mess of emotions, the most prominent of which being complete and unconditional adoration for his best friends. All four of whom had put their lives on hold to fly all the way over to Madrid, just to check up on Louis, keep him from going mental in his empty flat in a city hundreds of miles away and entirely on his own. He didn't even have to ask, is the thing. They just _knew_ that Louis needed them and they came, not wasting a single breath on pity and instead providing him with the comfort of unconditional love and support.

•••

The next week goes by quickly in a haze of practice after practice, despite Louis missing Wednesday's second leg of the Champions League Clasicó in Madrid. They beat Santander 5-0 but only manage to score three goals against Barca (and let in two more), bringing the aggregate score to a whooping 10-4 and kicking Real Madrid out of the Champions League. The papers declare it the most disappointing run by a current title-holding Champions League team in the history of football. (Which is a slight exaggeration, if you ask Louis.)

Regardless, it's a bitter loss for the team, who don't bother with handshakes or press conferences after the match. Louis watches it all in the pseudo-comfort of his home, not having slept the night before or eaten all day, and he feels guilty, again. It's barely been two months in the year and Louis can summarize every day that's passed already with just that word: guilty.

He feels guilty for fucking it up with Harry. He feels guilty for fucking it up with his club. He feels guilt for not coming out, for not trying harder to save his relationship, for making a joke out of _madridismo_ , for being a leading factor in the demise of his team's Champions League stint. The weight of all his fuck ups sits heavily on his shoulders, presses against his chest and makes it harder for him to breath or sleep at night, nearly impossible.

•••

Harry never calls Louis back, never bothers to contact him, and Louis doesn't bother to right back. It takes every ounce of self control he's got to ignore the emptiness in his chest and go about his days. His days, which consist of nothing more than practices and back-to-back matches (Real doesn't lose a game since Barca, managing to keep clean sheets every match).

The club forces him to put out a statement, which he doesn't really mind, and "apologize" for his "uncalled for behavior," but Louis draws the line at press conferences, absolutely refuses to do any interviews for the rest of the season unless it's from the club itself.

And the thing is, Louis knows he's giving everyone a hard time. He's snappier – when he chooses to talk, that is. He's not sure why everyone bothers putting up with him, but it probably has to do with the fact that he's a starting defender and they haven't let in a single goal in over three weeks. Xabi gives him remorseful glances every now and then, but Louis chooses to ignore those, too.

It's days like these that make Louis wish he at least had something to escape through, maybe a bottle of vodka or a huge joint, but that's the problem with being a professional athlete. Instead he channels his energy into getting in better shape, perfecting his crosses, quickening his sprints.

Sometimes he goes on runs with Cristiano, but they don't talk. Khedira and Ozil have him over a couple of times for lad's night, except it doesn't help that much that Louis' feels like 5th wheel. Xabi and Iker and Kaka even invite him to go to a few tennis matches with them, sitting right up front next to Xabi who even goes so far as coming alone to make sure Louis feels more comfortable.

And all their kind gestures only make Louis feel more guilty for burdening them with his thoughtless behavior and shitty attitude. He owes them so much for putting up with him, for knowing something's wrong without him having to say it, for trying to take his mind off of things. All he's got to offer them is a few clean sheets and a controversy so big it'd overshadow their entire season, his entire career.

•••

Some time in mid-March Louis gets called up for the national team during international break for friendlies against Belgium and Canada in London. He get the phone call on a Wednesday, has his flight for Friday, and reads the rest of the roster whilst packing on Thursday.

_**Forwards** _  
_Danny Welbeck (Manchester United)_  
 _Daniel Sturridge (Liverpool)_  
 _Wayne Rooney (Manchester United)_  
 _Jermain Defoe (Tottenham)_  
 _Theo Walcott (Arsenal)_

_**Midfielders** _  
_Michael Carrick (Manchester United)_  
 _Aaron Lennon (Tottenham)_  
 _Leon Osman (Everton)_  
 _Steven Gerrard (Liverpool)_  
 _Jack Wilshere (Arsenal)_  
 _Frank Lampard (Chelsea)_  
 _Tom Cleverley (Manchester United)_  
 _James Milner (Manchester City)_  
 _Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain (Arsenal)_

_**Defenders** _  
_Louis Tomlinson (Real Madrid)_  
 _Gary Cahill (Chelsea)_  
 _Ashley Cole (Chelsea)_  
 _Glen Johnson (Liverpool)_  
 _Kyle Walker (Tottenham)_  
 _Chris Smalling (Manchester United)_  
 _Joleon Lescott (Manchester City)_

_**Goalkeepers** _  
_Joe Hart (Manchester City)_  
 _Harry Styles (Liverpool)_

•••

It's the first time that Louis sees him in over two months, face-to-face in that third week of March. He's in a white polo like everyone else, the England crest a dark contrast against his pale, flushed skin. He's talking to Jack and Ashley when Louis walks into the room, his body facing the door. He looks deep in thought, listening intently to something Ashley is rambling on about.

It's hard to miss his long limbs and thick curls, actually, but Louis' always felt like the two of them were magnets; immediately aware of the other's presence in a crowded room. When Louis casts a final glance to him, he notices Harry's dark green eyes already on him. His eyes are wide, making Louis shrink under their intensity, but his lips are down-turned, a regretful frown on his soft, red lips.

Someone at the front of the room clears their throat, taps on the microphone, and everyone takes a seat. Louis sits somewhere in the back with a few of the guys from City, Harry up front with the Arsenal lads.

•••

When they get their rooming arrangements, Louis ends up with Harry, alphabetical order and all. The entire elevator ride up has Louis seconds away from a meltdown and God, that makes him feel even worse because this is _Harry_ , not Louis’ childhood crush who pushed him in the sandbox in front of everyone. This is _his_ Harry and Louis knows him; Louis loves him, so this isn’t a bad thing and he really shouldn’t be ready to piss himself as he opens the door to their room, but he is.

He’d stalled in the hotel bar for almost an hour after the team meeting, all in the hopes that Harry would have gone up to their room first and unpacked in the meantime, giving Louis a window of opportunity to both avoid Harry and man the fuck up.

Except, when Louis opens the door to their hotel room Harry has only just come out of the shower wearing nothing but a pair of tiny black Calvin Klein boxers and a towel resting on his shoulders.

“Oh.”

“Lou –”

“No, shit, sorry,” Louis mutters, hands flying everywhere as he drops his head and looks away, hands in search for his suitcase and his phone and his room key and shit, fuck, what the hell is he doing? What the fuck is he looking for? Shit, _“Fuck.”_

 _“Louis,”_ Harry whispers again.

“I-I’m sorry, I’ll just –”

“Jesus, Louis, just shut up.”

Louis looks up, a little – a lot – dumbstruck. Harry rolls his eyes (Fondly? Is Louis reading him properly?) and throws the towel from his shoulders onto the futon in the corner of the room.

“C’m’here.”

“Harry, I don’t think –”

“Bloody hell,” Harry chuckles before taking just three steps across the room and crushing Louis in his arms. Louis freezes, the air knocked out of him, and his mind goes completely blank because of all the scenarios he’d imagined whilst (not so) ingeniously avoiding Harry for two months, this was definitely not what he expected of their first encounter back together.

“Hug me back you fucking twat,” Harry grumbles into Louis’ ears, tightening his grip around him.

And Louis listens because shit, he’s not about to deny Harry of this, doesn’t think he’ll ever deny Harry of anything again.

•••

They don’t have any practice that day so Harry and Louis spend the entire day locked in, pressed against each other. Harry settles into the bed and pulls Louis onto his lap, manhandles him the whole time – because despite whatever façade Louis may have fooled everyone else into believing, Harry still knows the boy like the back of his hand – until he’s folded up in Harry’s arms, nose nuzzled into the crook of his neck, tiny fists pressed against Harry’s waist.

They don’t talk about the Sky interview or the ultimatum or the Barca game. They don’t mention the last two months apart, don’t bother to tally up how many missed calls and ignored texts they’ve gathered up between the two of them. It’d feel like digging up old bones, Louis thinks, if they did. Like they didn’t forgive each other, were still holding these mistakes against each other for darker days.

Instead Harry presses kisses to Louis’ temples and Louis traces the birds on Harry’s chest and the two of them consider those as silent apologizes; a silent _I’m sorry I fucked up_ and embedded _I’ll never leave you again, I’ll never let go again_ onto the other’s skin.

•••

For the next two weeks Louis and Harry spend all of their free time from training and friendlies and photoshoots locked up in their hotel room, reacquainting themselves with one another.

In the mornings before the sun has even risen Harry opens Louis up slowly, presses his tongue against Louis’ soft, pink skin and they go slow, slower than they’ve ever gone, until Louis is panting and leaving scratches on Harry’s back and teeth marks on his shoulder blades. (Teeth marks that he kisses over and over again the next morning when it all happens again.)

In the afternoons between lunch and second practices, Louis gets on his knees for Harry and swallows him eagerly until his nose pushes against Harry’s soft tummy. And even then Louis wraps his arms around the small dip of Harry’s spine and pulls the boy closer, flicks his tongue languidly, and begs Harry to fuck into him a little deeper.

In the night time they don’t bother washing the day’s sweat off before they jump into bed and Harry opens himself up for Louis all by himself, holding Louis above him to make sure he’s watching with his pupils blown wide, the baby blue color in them nonexistent. Louis fucks into him with slow, thick drags until Harry gets antsy and flips them over, riding Louis and clenching around him so tightly that Louis leaves marks on Harry’s hips and slips into subspace when he comes. And Harry takes over then, rides out his orgasm and starts a bath for them, slowly washes both their bodies until they're pink and warm and Louis’ returned to him.

When they fall asleep Louis presses himself against the curves of Harry’s body and fits himself into the space between his arms, rests his head under Harry’s chin and whispers _I love you_ s until his tongue feels heavy and Harry’s soft, even breaths tickle Louis’ hair.

•••

They beat Belgium 2-1 and Canada 3-0 and Louis holds Harry’s hand when the team goes out to celebrate both matches.

He doesn’t deny himself lingering touches during team breakfasts and keeps his palm steady against Harry’s lower back during lunches and lets his hand rest on Harry’s thigh at dinners.

If the team notices anything, they don’t say a word. If anything, Danny and Glen and Stevie from Liverpool share knowing, coy grins with the boys throughout the two weeks. Sometimes they joke at Louis for being so _domestic_ and tell Harry to stop it with the heart-eyes at Louis during practice, but everything in good spirits.

On the final night before they’re all due to separate to their respected clubs, Stevie corners Louis at dinner and informs him with a huge grin on his face that Xabi had called earlier that week. He tells Louis to call him back and update his teammate on the good news. It leaves Harry confused, but Louis nearly falls out of his seat laughing.

•••

“Club-level seats, huh?”

“Gotta have my good look charm, don’t I?”

“You did pretty well before me, if my memory serves me right.”

“Nah,” Harry sighs quietly on the other end of the line. Louis knows the boy’s already blushing stupidly, “M’never okay without you.”

Every day Louis thinks he’s reached the full capacity that someone can physically love another person and somehow Harry manages to prove him wrong every single day.

It’s two months later in late May and next week is the Champions League final in Istanbul. The game is set to start at precisely 20:00 standard GMT in the same stadium that Liverpool had won their last Champions League trophy in 2005. This time they’ll be facing Barcelona and Christ, Louis hopes Liverpool fucking destroy those pricks.

“Does this mean I get to blow you during half-time?” Louis asks, (completely not) jokingly.

•••

It’s a warm spring day in Istanbul on the night of the Champions League final. The week before had been a hot one with record-breaking temperatures that luckily a whole day’s worth of thunderstorms had cooled the city down for, all in preparation for the biggest night of the year in football.

Louis’ plane had arrived earlier that day, giving him enough time to clean up and grab a meal before heading to the stadium an hour before kickoff. Harry had gotten him seats all the way up in a box with Anne and Gemma and Robin and Louis’ mum and Xabi, even. (A secret they’d all kept from Louis this whole time.)

They chat and have some drinks and pretend like they’re not all about to piss themselves until the stadium fills up and there's five minutes left to kick-off. Louis takes out his phone and quickly types out a text before turning his phone off and his attention back to the pitch.

_if u keep win this match and keep a clean sheet i’ll ride u in ur kit from tonite x  
good luck love, see u at half time ;) _

•••

Harry blocks Messi’s penalty in the 32nd minute. In the 34th minute Daniel Agger scores a header and Liverpool end the first half of the match 1-0. Louis keeps true to his promise and runs to the tunnels at the 45th minute mark, not bothering to stay for extra time, gets there by the time Harry’s made it off the field and drags him to the closest bathroom stall.

He’s got, give or take, five minutes to blow Harry well enough to keep him focused during second half of the match and he wastes no time doing so. (It helps that Harry’s been half-hard since he’d read Louis’ text before kick-off.)

Louis gets on his knees eagerly and swallows Harry all the way down, cupping the back of Harry’s thighs and pressing forward until his nose brushes against Harry’s stomach and all Louis can smell and taste is Harry. It’s the fastest Harry’s ever come, probably (definitely the most he’s ever come), but Louis drinks him in until he’s dry and presses an open mouthed kiss to Harry’s shaky thigh when he’s swallowed it all down.

“Make sure you win, ya? I really wanna ride you tonight.”

•••

Liverpool beat Barcelona 2-0 that night with a final goal from Steven Gerrard in the last minute of overtime – the 96th minute. Louis runs onto the pitch – knows he’s not allowed to, but somehow gets away with it – and straight to Harry’s arm, tackling him to the ground. And between hurried gasps of _I love you I love you I’m so proud of you I love you_ , Louis opens Harry’s mouth up with a hungry tongue and bruising kisses in front of thousands of cameras and millions of witnesses. And honestly? Louis couldn’t give less of a shit if he tried.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks la la la  
> if i have typos i'll fix them later  
> (i say that all the time and i never do but i might just keep my promise this time i swear)  
> [on tumblr](http://tornorrows.tumblr.com)


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